BEEF LARDED, CAKE BAKING..WE'RE READY!

There are absolutely no pictures of Andy on the web-so this is the best I could do.

For the biggest sporting event of the year......

My morning has been planned around the 13:00 hrs start of what promises to be the highlight of the BBC's Wimbledon coverage. The Final.
As the beef roasts and the cake rests fattened with strawberries, mum and me good self will be chattering non-stop about...Muzza, Fedders, the Great British Nit Wits standing in line in trepidation and precipitation waiting in anticipation for what could be, has to be, the greatest day in Wimbledon's history. Mr H. prob be tea boy.
Blimey Oh Riley matey 'tis a long long time since Fred held the Plate but now, now there's a chance a SLIM chance mind you, that the beanpoley slightly adolescently mega rich Scot will finally leave his mark. 74 years since Fred..long times to wait.

I know I've cursed Andy but it wasn't meant literally, I didn't do anything really evil to make him lose in all his Wimbledon semi-finals but this time, due to maturity and a desperate need for front room excitement/action I'm gagging for a Scottish win.

All my domestic cuties, I mean duties, are in strict must-do order. Firstly veggies, then yorkies then bake the celebratory cake... A Swiss Roll.

Come On Andy!

New Balls....Change Ends

As a tonic to my de-fizzed world cup champers I choose to serve a tennis cocktail.
Without umbrellas.

The great sporting event, highlighted with a green marker in my sugary kitchen diary, starts today, Wimblingdon. A perennial favourite of mine even when rained off, but torrents won't stop the start or delay the end on account of the new roof.
Tennis has never looked so swish.

Federer is out first, but when he plays I'll be kitchen clamped and his glossy shots and slicing forehands may be lost as I turn out a sweet confection. Chicken pie will also demand my complete and undivided attention. Somehow though, pies of a fowl kind don't sit comfortably alongside strawberries and cream. But I have to eat.

What does demand my attention however is the hullaballoo over the possible resignation of Fabio Capello. If England fail to qualify he may well hand in his notice, pack his cases and head off to warmer climes. Rat. And I thought he was such a nice gentleman.

But I couldn't blame him, not really, not after seeing how badly England are performing, how disappointing the multi-millionaires have been, I too would consider looking for another job.
There's also discontent in the brain of Rooney, it, that's the England team, apparently revolves around him. Does it? I thought the other ten guys wore the shirt also. If I were Capello I'd drop him and bring on Joe Cole. Teach Wayne Rooney that he IS NOT indispensable. Silly boy.

So.........you can imagine the flap I'm getting in, and I did promise myself a little while ago that flaps were a thing I wouldn't get in. But love, and it is indeed love, love of my team affects my heart and I can't let go. For God's sake how dare I speak of love, then when I'm needed most, shove of giving myself to something else. Wimblingdon.

Balls and shorts will hold me today and tomorrow so Portugal et al won't get a look in...But come Wednesday, in the afternoon, the ghost of Fred Perry could appear and Cliff Richard could arrive with a bride and I would not turn a hair.

England will have me. Enraptured and believing again.
I hope X

Oh Yes!

There's a dent in my ceiling, a stain on my frilly blouse and I've lost a dozen radishes. No, I have not been having great sex, I was simply watching the greatest tennis match in the history of tennis matches.
When it started at two thirty my tummy was digesting a nice bit of roast lamb but it wasn't only gastric juices that were flooding me body, adrenaline was causing tumultuous waves too, because I do get so very excited over big sporting events and Sunday's men's singles final was no exception.

When Rafa took the first two sets I thought 'that's it, it's over for big Roger' but I was so so wrong. The match just got better and better, so good in fact that at one point I spilt tea all down my fabulous frontage and my mid evening snack of radishes and hummus got scattered all over my dismal sofa and all because Rafa had missed a couple of match points. I was getting the right hump.
What I called Federer is not suitable for publication on a public blog, suffice to say my language was rainbow coloured. When he kept coming back at Rafa I stared at my t.v. screen trying to put the heebie jeebies on him, my eyes went a bit crossed and smoke started coming out of my ears, I waved my arms about in a frightening manner and called up darkish forces just so the cute Spaniard could walk off court with a big gold cup.
And it worked! Because he did!

You know, I've been thinking, big tennis matches are rather like sex.
There's provocation in the build up, then enthusiastic manoeuvres all acted out with grace and seriousness, then a welcomed two minute respite after a particularly hard thirty minute set, then a further five hour flurry of activity and then a result.
Game Over.

Rafa v Roger. Weather Permitting!

The weather gods are playing games at Wimbledon. Let's hope they run out of steam and rain soon!
Good Luck to Rafa and let's hope for a good game.

Chris Is Still My Number One

I was feeding pigeons and watering tomato plants at six this morning, the idea of laying in bed on such a damp and beautiful Saturday morning was just stupid, much rather be doing something worthwhile.

I see the Ladies Final at Wimbledon is a Williams affair, I won't watch it, don't particularly care for those two girls, they're a bit too loud for my liking, I much prefered watching the now retired Justine Henin, she was a lovely divine and feisty character.
Talking of adorable creatures my all time favourite tennis gal was Chris Evert, (see pic above) me and Mum watched her thrash out final after final, she was humble and sweet when victorious and always gracious and polite in defeat and always, always behaved like a lady on court. The only thing that puzzled me about Chrissy was how she could have married that no good tyke John Lloyd, I always thought he was a bad 'un, and I was right. She recently married again I hope she's found Mr Right.

Another player I loved watching was Arancha Sanchez Vicario (not sure about the spelling) she used to storm out onto court like an untamed pony, she'd then run around like a thing possessed not worrying about her flying hair and sweaty brow, she was a great little thing, so unpolished and natural, an absolute kiss of freshness to a staid old Brit like me. I just love women who act like men.
The current crop of women players leave me a bit chilled, haven't seen any real stars, Dementiava looks like she could go far and there's a fourteen year old British girl called Laura Robson who looks set to make a mark on British tennis in a big way. She was born in Australia but I won't hold that against her.
Let's hope she bounces around court like a kangaroo (sorry couldn't resist!)

The mens final tomorrow between my favourite boy Rafa Nadal and the slightly creepy Roger Federer looks like being another corker, Rafa's been on top form recently and his idiosyncratic ways with bottles of water make me laugh. Could have some kind of emotional problem there I thought, as he carefully and meticulously placed one bottle in front of the other. Better watch that Rafa...Don't become obsessive about bottles dear!

Federer plays like an automaton, rarely going off kilter, rarely doing anything wrong, I don't enjoy having perfection rammed down my throat, I know he's a master at what he does but I need to see flaws to fall in love.

So my Saturday is one of avoiding the telly and doing something with chicken legs.
Be happy everyone.